Sherlock: The Origin of the Drugs
by IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: Nobody knows who got Sherlock Holmes addicted to drugs... nobody but Mycroft Holmes. See warnings inside.


SHERLOCK

THE ORIGIN OF THE DRUGS

_**Nobody knows who got Sherlock Holmes addicted to drugs... nobody but Mycroft Holmes. Rated M for violence, swearing, drug use, OD-ing, and references to m/m sex.**_

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Characters: Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson (mentioned).**_

_**Rating: Rated M for swearing, drug use, drug overdose, and references to m/m sex.**_

_**About: Nobody knows exactly how Sherlock Holmes got addicted to drugs... nobody but his brother, that is. Because his brother was there when the problem began...**_

_**Ownership: Well of course I don't own it. Do you think I'd be writing fan fictions if I owned these fabulous characters? Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**_

_**I live to entertain.**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_

Everybody always wondered who got Sherlock Holmes into drugs. DI Lestrade assumed he'd fallen in with a bad crowd. John Watson assumed he'd got bored and tried every stimulant known to man. His parents, long since passed, hadn't known anything about his drug habit. Only Mycroft Holmes, his senior by ten years, knew the truth.

Because it was Mycroft Holmes who introduced his brother to cocaine at the tender age of fifteen.

It wasn't intentional. Yes, Mycroft Holmes did most things intentionally; he never left anything to chance. But getting his little brother hooked on cocaine was definitely _not _intentional.

He'd been high, of course, going into his second year of buying and taking the drug. He'd sit in his office, behind a closed door, and mix the white powder into a 7% solution. The look of the liquid filling the syringe was breath-taking and almost stopped the shivers going up Mycroft's arms. _Almost_.

And then the feel of it entering his skin. The very small stab, the _humph _in the back of his throat as he injected the liquid. Gone was the tourniquet, the needle, the bottle. All of it pushed away into a draw as Mycroft sat back and waited for the high.

And it came, like a force of nature, smashing into his body and making him groan. He was vaguely aware of someone picking the lock on his office door but he didn't really care. This was before the days of the attempts on Mycroft's life; the days before he could go around kidnapping doctors with the clever use of CCTV cameras. This was when he had a small office, an actual minor position in the British government.

The door flipped open and there stood a proud fifteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes, tall, skinny, pale, with wild brown hair and bright eyes. He grinned and said, 'I did it, Mycroft!'

Mycroft didn't answer. Instead he leaned back in his seat and smiled.

Sherlock knew something was wrong. His brother was always sharp, always ready to congratulate Sherlock on a job well done.

Pocketing the lock-picking kit Mycroft had given him the previous day, Sherlock closed the door and crossed the room. 'Mycroft? Are you okay?'

He smiled again. 'Yes.' His voice was slurred, his eyes glazy.

'M-Mycroft?'

'Mm?'

'What have you taken?'

Mycroft paused and swept his grey-blue eyes over his brother. Sherlock had always been smart, almost as much as Mycroft. They'd both watched alcohol take down their father, and later pills took their mother from them. Sherlock knew what details to look for when someone was on something.

'Nothing,' he sighed, euphoria kicking away the need to protect his brother.

'Mycroft, don't lie to me.'

Sherlock began searching through Mycroft's desk and found the bottle of cocaine, the syringe, and the tourniquet.

'What is this?' Sherlock demanded.

'Cocaine,' Mycroft murmured. He smiled again.

'W-why?' Sherlock demanded.

'It's good,' Mycroft said. 'Takes it away.'

Sherlock placed the drugs on the table. 'Takes what away?'

'The pain.'

It clicked together quickly for young Sherlock. Their parents had died young, killed by their own selfish behaviour. Mycroft, then twenty, was suddenly father, mother, brother and guardian of his younger brother. He handled it fairly well. He raised Sherlock, he fed him, clothed him, got him to school, and all while he went to university, worked, did the shopping, did everything.

It was tough but Mycroft was a tough person. He was smart, brilliantly so, and knew how to compartmentalise everything. It was only when Sherlock entered high school that Mycroft began to choke.

Sherlock was never good with people. He couldn't hide his distaste, his boredom, like Mycroft could. He got into trouble, he burned things down, he left Mycroft feeling like a failure.

And on one cold night, while Mycroft was stuck in his office, he fell.

The man was older than Mycroft, experienced, and knew how to seduce his younger co-workers. He knew what they wanted to hear, what they needed. He introduced Mycroft to pain and sex and freedom. And later, when Mycroft was weak, he introduced the young politician to drugs.

And now, two years later, Mycroft was coasting through life on sex, drugs, alcohol and work. He barely saw his brother, was barely there to stop Sherlock from curling in on himself.

Sherlock stared at the drugs, knowing they were why Mycroft had seemed... happier, yet sadder. Why he didn't care about the death of their parents or Sherlock screwing up at school. That was good, wasn't it? Sherlock didn't like Mycroft worrying; he didn't want to disappoint him. But Mycroft had been... sullen, quiet, angry.

It was a double-edged sword, Sherlock knew. The drugs took away the pain, but they created other ones. His brother's weight-loss, the dark eyes, the shaking.

Sherlock swallowed, hard, and looked at his brother. Mycroft was just smiling, tapping his fingers along the table.

'Do they help?' Sherlock asked.

'Hmm?'

'Do you miss Mummy and Father?' Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shook his head. 'No.'

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'Okay,' he said.

Why did Sherlock lash out at school? Because people bored him. Why did people bore him? Because they were stupid. Why were people stupid? Because they drank, they took pills, they hit you and ignored you and pretended you were dead.

And Sherlock didn't like that.

Sherlock grabbed the syringe and stuck it into the bottle. He withdrew a very small amount of liquid and grabbed the tourniquet.

'Sherlock...' Mycroft mumbled but didn't move. Could he move? He was stuck, glued to his chair by the drugs and by what Sherlock was doing. 'Don't...'

Sherlock had the tourniquet around his slender arm and was flexing to find a vein. He could hear his brother's objections but didn't care. That something could take away the pain of his life, of the loss of his parents, it thrilled Sherlock to no end. To stop everybody getting under his skin, to stop the boredom... Mycroft wasn't bored now, he was happy. And Sherlock would be happy too.

'Sherlock, don't,' his brother mumbled again.

Sherlock stuck the needle into his arm and pushed down the plunger. Mycroft groaned as Sherlock pulled the needle out. He dropped it onto the table and fell to sit, his back to the wall. Mycroft watched him carefully, waiting for the high that was sure to hit.

And then the fifteen-year-old gasped, groaned, moaned, scratched at his arms. He withered about in pleasure, grinning like an idiot.

Mycroft Holmes knew he'd lost his brother. Sherlock had an addictive personality, much like Mycroft.

His little brother was gone.

And it was his fault.

-oOo-

Years later and both brother's had been arrested, OD'd, found in drug houses, fallen asleep in the streets, lost weight, gained weight, slept around, and done everything else under the sun. Mycroft was better at hiding it than Sherlock. When Sherlock got arrested he stayed arrested. When Mycroft got arrested his assistant bailed him out and kept it hidden from his superiors.

But then it got to the point where Mycroft could no longer ignore the hold cocaine had on both their lives. Sherlock was found in a crack house, beaten, starved, and it was Mycroft's fault. He took his brother back and demanded he get clean; they both would.

Mycroft did. Sherlock failed. But then DI Lestrade came along and offered Sherlock a better life; one of death, puzzles, and the freedom to insult anybody he came into contact with.

They both went well, for a while. Sherlock slipped every now and then but nothing major. And then John Watson came along and things went excellently.

Sherlock was going good. He'd been clean one whole year. If only the same could be said for his brother...

-oOo-

Meeting Gregory Lestrade was the best thing that had ever happened to Mycroft. Greg had saved Sherlock, had stopped the drugs. He'd saved Mycroft, too, from a life of boring politicians and late night drug taking. Mycroft had never been happier...

And then there was that plan, the one Mycroft had created. It went wrong. Forty-three agents were killed. Mycroft was given a slap on the wrist. He was a good planner, a great, brilliant, man. And this was one of his few mistakes. They wouldn't fire him. They couldn't afford to.

And Mycroft couldn't ignore the lives he had taken.

The drugs sat on his desk for twenty minutes before Mycroft mixed it. He felt his muscles bend and strain as he did the familiar dance; mix the drugs, put them in a bottle, grab a neat, clean syringe, fill the syringe. Grab a tourniquet, wrap it around his arm, flex to find a vein.

The vein stood against his pale, freckled skin, and Mycroft hesitated. He'd been clean five months this time. It had been the longest. Another work related incident had set Mycroft back. Nobody but Sherlock had noticed. Nobody but Sherlock had cared.

Mycroft pushed the needle into his vein and shivered at the familiar pinch. He pushed down on the plunger and watched the clear liquid disappear into his arm. Already it was coasting through his veins, shooting towards his brain.

Mycroft pulled off the tourniquet and sighed as he leaned back. He flexed his bicep, squeezed his fingers into a fist. Any second now, it would come. Wait... wait... _there!_

He leaned back, moaning, as the euphoria shot through his body. His brain kicked into high gear, fuzzily swimming inside his skull. There was no other feeling like this, though sex with Gregory Lestrade definitely topped it.

But at moments like this Mycroft couldn't get sex. Because Greg was working and Mycroft had nothing but work to occupy his mind. And work just wasn't helping tonight.

Mycroft sunk further into his seat as his eyesight went blurry before snapping back, then going blurry again. He'd catch every single detail about a small, innate object, before his vision was swirling through his skull.

Everything felt right, and in order, and completely safe. Work was safe, Sherlock was safe, the desk was safe, the chair was comfy... everything just worked. It was perfect. Mycroft lived for these moments when he didn't have to worry about the little things like government's going to war and terrorist groups trying to shoot down an aeroplane.

No, in these moments, Mycroft was completely at peace. Cocaine, and sex, made Mycroft feel right. It made him forget about all his horrible mistakes.

He moaned again, running nimble fingers through his hair. Suddenly he was feeling hot and it was pleasant at first, like a tingle across his skin. And then he started sweating and Mycroft pulled at his tie.

A second later he was on the floor and one thought speared through his head. _I'm overdosing._ And then unconsciousness swallowed him.

-oOo-

'Don't pretend to be asleep, I can tell when you're awake.'

He was aware that his mouth was sticky, sweet, dry, and awful all at the same time. The smell of antiseptic invaded his nostrils and made Mycroft's empty stomach twist. The sheets beneath him were cold, the gown he was in annoyingly rough.

Mycroft opened his eyes slowly, the bright lights annoyingly sharp. He groaned and tried to sit. Mycroft felt strong hands under his arm and he was dragged up. He leaned back against a pillow and blinked to clear his eyesight.

He was in a hospital, as he had deduced before opening his eyes. Gregory, who had spoken to him seconds earlier, was half-glaring, half-whimpering at Mycroft. His hair was all over the place and there was stubble along his jaw. His clothes were crumbled and dirty, telling Mycroft he'd come from a case.

'Gregory,' Mycroft said, his voice croaky. Greg passed him a glass of water from the tray that held what appeared to be Greg's dinner. Mycroft downed the entire glass and Greg refilled it, twice more, before Mycroft spoke again. 'Thank you.'

They lapsed into silence then, Greg staring at Mycroft, Mycroft pointedly staring at the bed. When Greg sighed Mycroft knew what was about to happen.

'How long?'

Mycroft knew what he meant. How long had Mycroft been a drug addict? How long had he been injecting poison into his body? How long had he been hiding it from his family, his work, from Greg? How long had Mycroft been lying to Greg?

'Mycroft?'

'Twenty-four,' he finally said. 'I was twenty-four when I started.'

Greg breathed out and leaned back in his seat. 'Twenty years, Mycroft? You've been an addict for twenty years?'

'On and off,' Mycroft admitted. 'I... I usually go months in-between... in-between...'

'Hits?' Greg offered. 'You go months in-between injecting fucking poison into your body?'

Mycroft nodded.

Greg was glaring at him, he could feel it. He was angry and pissed off and scared and... he sighed and leaned forward to look at Mycroft carefully.

'Why?'

Mycroft blinked and looked up at him. There was hurt in his dark brown eyes but also... a need to understand why Mycroft was doing this.

He swallowed and said, 'I... my parents died when I was twenty. I had to take care of Sherlock. It was hard but we got by. And then he started high school and it was _so _hard, Gregory. I found myself stressed beyond belief. There was a man I worked with, an older colleague...' he paused and swallowed again.

'We... we had sex, a lot. He told me what I wanted to hear. He pretended he was there for me and I... I fell in love with him. I think I did. He got me hooked on drugs. Drugs took away all the pain I was feeling, all the stress, and it made me feel better about Sherlock and our parents. And when he left, the man, I didn't care because I had drugs.'

Greg reached forward and grabbed one of Mycroft's hands, squeezing tightly.

'Sherlock found me in my office high,' Mycroft said. 'I told him how they helped with the pain of our parents. He...' he blinked back tears. 'I got my brother hooked on drugs, Gregory. It's my fault; everything that has happened to Sherlock is my fault. If I'd been there for him he might be... he might be better...'

He started crying silently, tears falling down his face. Greg gripped his hand tightly, not sure what to say. Even now, after bloody OD-ing, Mycroft was more worried about Sherlock; Sherlock, who was happy and healthy with John.

'Mycroft,' Greg said slowly and Mycroft looked at him, 'yes, it was your fault that Sherlock started taking drugs. But don't pretend that you never tried to help him. He's clean now, he's okay.'

'It was you who got him clean, Gregory,' Mycroft said, 'not me.'

Greg leaned forward and rubbed the tears from Mycroft's eyes.

'Mycroft, you've helped Sherlock so much, and me, and John, and everybody. You do so much to help other people. You have to let go of the past and... damn it, Mycroft, why did you take them? You nearly died.'

'I made a mistake,' Mycroft said, 'with work and later, with the solution. I forgot to take into account that I'd been clean for a few months. I injected too much.'

Greg shook his head. 'You're a fucking idiot, Mycroft Holmes.'

'I know.'

'Why wouldn't you just tell me you were upset?'

Mycroft gulped. 'I... I didn't think of that.'

His boyfriend glared at him. 'Didn't think of it?' Mycroft shook his head. 'Rather than talk to me, because you didn't think of it, you fucking injected yourself with cocaine?'

Mycroft nodded.

'You're a dickhead.'

Mycroft nodded.

'A fuck whit.'

Mycroft nodded.

'You're going to get clean.'

Mycroft hesitated, staring at Greg. He couldn't get clean, he never had. A few months here and there didn't make him clean. He always fell back, always called the dealer and shot up in his office or home. He threw up, he shook, he stopped eating and sleeping. But the high outweighed all of that.

'I can't.'

'Bullshit. You will. And I'll be here to help you, Mycroft.'

'No, Gregory, I can't.'

'Why not?'

'I need it.'

'You need it?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'm sorry, Mycroft, but I'm done.'

'What?'

'I'm done, with you. I'm absolutely fucking done if you don't get healthy.'

He leaned back and crossed his arms, glaring at Mycroft. Mycroft sat there, breathing heavily, trying to comprehend what Gregory was saying.

The DI was going to leave. He'd stop being with Mycroft, they'd stop dating. Never again would Mycroft see that tired smile after a hard day's work. They'd never share dinner, or breakfast, or laugh and chat and fight. Mycroft would never feel that strong, hard body beneath his. He'd never hear Greg gasp because of what Mycroft was doing. He'd never feel those warm, calloused hands on his skin.

That was unacceptable. The past six months had been the best of Mycroft's life. Gregory was everything to him now, he loved him, he needed him.

'No.'

'Excuse me?' Greg asked.

'You can't leave me, please.'

'I'm sorry, Mycroft, but I won't date a junkie.'

'P-please, Gregory.'

'No.'

'I... I love you.'

'I love you too,' Greg said, ignoring the fact it was the first time either had admitted it. 'But I won't date a junkie, Mycroft Holmes. And you are a junkie.'

Mycroft took deep, shallow breaths. 'I... I need you.'

'Do you need me more than drugs?'

Mycroft nodded.

'Then give them up.'

'But... I can't. It... I'm not strong enough.'

Greg got up and sat on the bed beside Mycroft, a strong arm coming to rest around the politician.

'I can help, Mycroft. I'll always be here for you. If you fuck up at work, or just feel shit, then call me. I'll drop everything, even a goddamn murder, to come help you. Because I will not let you OD again, Mycroft. I can't stand the thought of you sitting in your bloody office shooting up. If I lost you I'd completely fucking break down. So you're going to tell me when you need them and I'm going to stop you, okay?'

'You won't leave?'

'Not if you try to get clean, Mycroft.'

'I'll fail.'

'No you won't.'

'What if I do?'

'I'll help.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

Mycroft leaned into Greg's strong arms. 'I'm sorry.'

'I know.'

After a quick kiss, Greg fell back into his seat and smiled.

'What?' Mycroft asked.

'I totally own you, Mr Dangerous Politician. You'd do anything for me, and you know it.'

He was joking now, Mycroft could tell. They'd spoken, seriously, they'd made their plans. Gregory had made his demands and Mycroft was going to follow them to the letter. And now the DI was lifting the mood because he hated fighting with Mycroft.

He knew Mycroft well, knew the politician would rise to the bait and insist he belonged to no one. But he belonged to Gregory and he knew it. They belonged to each other. That was love.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Nobody owns me, Gregory.'

Greg's smile widened and he leaned back, putting his feet on the bed. Mycroft frowned at him as Greg placed his hands on top his silver head. He smiled coyly, a smile that was so disarming Mycroft felt his heart melt and his cock twitch.

Greg grinned. 'I own you. And you own me. Completely.'

Mycroft nodded. Greg definitely owned him. And Mycroft owned him.

Greg smiled and, after a second, Mycroft did too.

{THE END}

_**Author's Note: This just came to me one day when I got the image of Mycroft shooting up cocaine in his office. So I thought, "What if it was Mycroft that got Sherlock hooked on drugs? What if both of them had taken cocaine together?" **_

_**I'm not sure if it's ever been done before. If it has, oh well.**_

_**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always welcome.**_

_**Cheers.**_

_**I live to entertain.**_

_**And, most importantly,**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_


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